NATURAL BOURNE KILLER
by Art Anthony
Summary: Some people are defined by their role in life, this girl is defined by her role in peoples death! But is anything what it seems? And will time permit the real truth to be brought to light?
1. StillBOURNE

**STILLBOURNE**

_There was once this amnesiac assassin... stop me if you've heard this one before. Oh, you have? Well, as cliche as it may sound, it's what I think I just might be._

_Why? Because as I'm sitting here alone in this diner, my mind is continuously coming up with combat scenarios, exit strategies, I'm mentally taking note of where each surveillance camera is positioned, their lines of sight, it's like my mind won't switch off._

_Case in point, I'm looking at what I think is a pretty hot guy making eyes at me from the other side of the room, and all I'm thinking is, he's caucasian, weighs about 12st, 75kg, 5ft 8in in height, left handed and married, probably unhappily, with at least one child._

_Ok, so the tiny milk stain on the shoulder of his suit jacket tells me as much and the ring on his wedding finger is a dead giveaway, but the point is, this is the only reason I can come up with that actual makes sense._

_As for the 'amnesiac' bit, my mind pretty much draws up a blank when I try to remember anything beyond six weeks ago. That's when they found me, unconscious, lying in the middle of Westfield Park._

_No idea what I was doing there, maybe out for a late night jog? Whatever it was, it seems I was the victim of an attack, as I'd reportedly suffered a mild head wound. But bizarrely no money was taken. And thankfully no trace of... well... anything **else** being done to me, either. _

_Couldn't track down any friends or family members though. Said they'd pick up on it once they have a moment or two. Guess they're still busy._

_Just wish I could remember something. Anything. I don't even remember what I'm doing sitting in this diner._

"Yo, Alexia! You wanna get your pretty little ass off that chair? Customers aren't gonna serve **themselves**, you know?"

_Oh yea, now I remember. I work here. I'm not an assassin after all. Just a waitress._

"Sorry Mr Redmond," I apologise. "I must have dozed off. Won't happen again!"

"Bet yo ass it won't happen again! You know, this ain't baseball. Here, you only get **_two_** _**strikes!**"_

_That's Reggie Redmond, the owner of the diner. He was kind enough to give me a job, even without a reference. Thanks to him being the brother-in law of one of the cops who found me._

"Sorry, Mr Redmond, sir."

"Good thing the good Lord gave you beauty. Cause 'seems the best part a your _brain_ got left back in your mama's womb! Now go serve that kind gentleman, waiting patiently for the bill!"

_Ah. Yes. The hot guy. So **that's** why he was looking my way._

_I make my way sheepishly over to him, he's even better looking up close, all the while hoping I don't make an ass of myself. Again._

"Sorry to keep you waiting, sir." I apologise, "I hope the breakfast was satisfactory?"

"The eggs were ok and the toast a little on the burnt side, but the service more than made up for it." he smiles. I blush in response.

"Would you like anything else?" I gush.

"Nothing on the menu." he smiles again.

_Damn it, with a smile like that, I'm almost tempted to pay the damn bill **for** him. I don't, of course. I simply place the bill gently on the table before him, face down, gather his knife, fork and plate, then turn to leave._

_"_Actually Isabella, there is _one_ thing you can do for me..." he asks.

_I turn back to him and smile politely, _"Sorry sir, my name is Alexia?"

_When they found me in the park that night, it was the name written on my identification papers; passport, driving license, etc. Pretty much the only thing I **am** sure of._

"Hey, no need to apologise, miss. It was my mistake." he replies. "It's just... you look a **lot** more like an 'Isabella' than you do an 'Alexia'. Anyone ever told you that?"

_Ok, this is awkward. He's trying to make light conversation with me. Probably doesn't know Ive seen the ring. Need to play dumb. Don't want to offend the guy for trying to flatter me._

"No sir, no-one _has_ told me that. At least not in the last six weeks, anyway." I laugh, innocently. Which ends up sounding dorky.

"Strange though," he continues. "Cause you _definitely_ remind me of an Isabella I knew; Isabella Garcia. Actually _looked_ a lot like you, too."

"Well I... _hope_ she was a nice lady, at the very least, Sir." I say, feeling _more_ awkward by the minute.

He pauses for a moment, then shrugs. "Like I said, my mistake." he smiles, again.

"Not a problem sir." I tell him. "Now, there was something I could do for you?"

"Yes, there was..." he replies, "YOU COULD _**DIE!**"_

_He pulls out a Beretta M9 from nowhere and aims it at me, and time freezes. It's almost as if I've stepped out of my own body, becoming my own spectator to what unfolds._

_I hurl the plate at him with everything I've got - He flinches, ducking underneath it, firing shots at me blindly as the plate shatters against the wall behind him - but I've already rolled towards him, safely under the trajectory of the bullets - three of them whistle over my head by the time I've reached his table - I jab the fork in my hand deep into his lower leg and he screams - I rise, kicking the gun from his hand as it spins across the room, cracking the front window on impact - he pulls out a combat knife and lunges towards me - I side-step it, driving the bread knife in my other hand deep into his wrist with such force, it goes right through - he screams, dropping the combat knife - I catch it and drive it into his chest._

_As he slowly sinks into his chair, I just stand there, indifferent, watching the light in his eyes slowly go out. _

_A scream from behind me snaps me out of my trance-like state. It's one of the other girls, a colleague. _

"Reggie's been shot!" she cries. "Call 911!"

_A stray bullet must have found him. Sooner or later, they find everyone. No, thats not me thinking. That's not how I talk. Who am I? What's just happened?_

_The other customers come up from underneath their tables and run out into the streets in a mass panic, screaming. Everyone is screaming._

_I've never felt so scared in all my life. All six weeks of it. I'm hyperventilating. My hearts beating so rapidly it feels like its in my throat. My head feels cloudy, too many questions. I need air. I need to get out._

_I run outside and throw up everything I ate that morning till theres nothing left but air._

_Thats when I hear the screeching of a car pulling up in front of me. The passenger door flies open and a man leans over and screams at me; _

"Get in! Quick! We don't have a lot of time. Get in and live or stay there and die, its your choice!"

_I don't know why, but I get in. I trust this man for some reason. Even though I've never met him before. I don't know why. I need to find out why. So I get in and we __speed off in his car, as the sound of approaching sirens echo in the distance._

To be continued...


	2. Wasn't BOURNE yesterday

**Wasn't BOURNE yesterday.**

My world is upside down.

I don't mean that metaphorically, I'm talking _literally_.

The people all around, staring at me, pointing, they're standing upside down. One of them's trying desperately to tell me something. But I can't hear him. In fact I cant hear anything for all the ringing in my ears.

Ah, yes... the ringing in my head! The very same head that feels like it was hit by a bus.

No, not a bus. A car.

Right, I remember now. I remember it all. It's not the world that is upside down... it's **me. **

The incident back at the diner, the man who conveniently appeared from nowhere to help me escape. The very same man hanging next to me from the drivers seat, semi-conscious, blood gushing from an open wound on his forehead. He's murmuring something... a name... 'Pamela... Landy'. Is she in _danger_? Or is **she** the danger herself?

Regardless, I need to get him-_us_ free. Focus. Calm. Panicking creates errors, errors create mistakes, mistakes'll get us both killed. If the leaking fuel from the petrol tank doesn't first. So that's what the people outside were trying to tell me. Our time is limited.

I calmly unclip my seatbelt and gravity does the rest. Now my head's **_really_** hurting.

I look all about me, assessing the situation, playing out the various options. None are coming up favourable. I can see in the side mirror a small fire growing steadily from the back. Once it hits the leaking fuel you'll be able to serve up whats left of me on a slice of toast back at the diner.

The diner. Sure hope Mr Hammond is alright. Feel so guilty.

Heads really pounding, now. Heart rate's increasing. Hard to focus. Trying to unclip the driver but its no use, the seatbelt's jammed. I look around for something to prise it open, cut the straps or... wait... a briefcase... back of the car... shiny... silver. Never noticed it before... how strange...

Now the fires spread all the way to where we are. We're out of time.

I try to pull him free. He screams in agony. Somethings broken. Or dislocated. His shoulder perhaps? I wonder what's in the briefcase?

One last look around I see a shard of broken glass from the windscreen. Perfect for cutting him free. Now, if I could just... grab... the briefcase.

Damn it, whats with me and this **_damn briefcase?_**

I need it! Probably holds information. Probably about 'her'. This 'Pamela Landy' lady. The one who's responsible for all this. She killed Mr Hammond and near enough killed me. But Im too smart. I survived. I'm a _**survivor**_. And I'll survive now, I just need to-_damn it, listen to me!_ A mans life quite literally '_hangs in balance_', and all i can think of is...!

I reach over for the briefcase, stretching until it's in my grasp, then use it to clear a sizeable hole in the windscreen before crawling my way out of it and scrambling to safety. The sheer force emanating from the explosion of the car, carries me the majority of the way.

I land in a nearby patch of grass and just lie there, as pieces of debris rain down all around me, the briefcase serving as a handy umbrella of sorts, as I wait patiently for the passing of the storm.

The briefcase. I have it. **WHY?**

Dear God, no! I let that man die to rescue it! But why? It doesn't make sense. I had a plan to rescue **_him_**. I'd already decided I that I would... _open the briefcase._ Yes, that was it... I need to open the briefcase. Could be something important inside. I NEED TO GET IT OPEN!

I take up a piece of scrap remains from the car and begin hammering away at the latches in an almost animalistic fashion until eventually one latch gives way. Followed by the other.

Taking a deep breath I open it slowly and peer inside, giddy with anticipation of my prize.

It's revealed to be... a red digital clock face surrounded by an assortment of wires... strange. Who carries around a digital clock in a silver shiny briefcase?

I glance again at it and notice... the numbers... they're counting down... to something...

'00.0**4**, 00.0**3**, 00.0**2**, 00.0**1**.'

'OH SH-!'

Darkness.

Silence.

Voices?

Two men talking. Having a heated debate about... _me?_

I pry my eye lids open, Its difficult, they're so heavy. Still darkness, something must be covering my eyes. I'm in some sort of chair with both my hands and feet restrained. Where am

I? What the hell is going on?

"Make a note; subject 437T has responded favourably to scenarios _one, two _and _four_. _Three_ and _five_, less... predictable. Her reaction time in _four_ and _one_ however... impressive. Best I've seen since subject: Webb back in the initial programme."

"How far we have come since then."

"Indeed. Prep the 'whitewash' software. Time for a live run. We're moving ahead with the-."

"Too soon! Synaptic readings are erratic at best. We'll need more time to ensure a stable-"

"Dr Ludlum, you are not paid to second guess my requests, merely to record my findings and carry out my instructions to the letter."

"Payment? I'm not _doing_ this for '_payment_' you... I'll remind you of your promise to-"

"Yes. Of course Dr, calm yourself. You still have my word she'll be safely released upon completion of 'Zero Hour'. But till then, doctor... I would strongly recommend you-"

"I... know. Look, when... this is over. I'm out. Completely. No more."

"But of course Dr. They're will be no further need for you. Or her. I always keep my word."

"You know, if 'he' found out we were using 'her' as a test subject... conducting these experiments...?"

"If **he** is still alive, as rumours persist... he doesn't even know **she** exists... and she doesn't even know who he _is!_ So do us both a favour and wipe her memory like I have asked you. And doctor... thats the last verbal warning you will get. Next time you'll eat a bullet."

I then hear one set of footsteps leave the room, whilst the other draws slowly closer to my location. My heart races as a single beed of sweat begins its journey down the side of my face.

I remain catatonically still.

"I _know_ you are awake." he whispers to me. "We don't have much time. 'Nicky Parsons'. Remember that name when you awake. Seek her out when you are able. Tell her; 'Project Whitewash' is a Go! She will know how to st-"

I black out.

Darkness.

Silence.

To be continued...


	3. One BOURNE Every Minute

**One BOURNE Every Minute**

I'm awake.

But there's still darkness.

Getting to be a habit.

Only this time its cause there's a hood over my face.

From what I can tell I'm in a... vehicle of some sort. Journey's smooth so we ain't off-road. And steadily paced too, so Im guessing maybe a freeway? And I can smell... gun oil... from a weapon somewhere nearby... and movement. There's lots of movement. All around me. Where am I _this_ time?

My head. Feels... funny. Not in a _headache_ kind of way either. Back of my head... its... itchy.

What's happened to me? Where am I? Who's taken me hostage?

No... the fear...its creeping back to me. Its hungry and wants to feed. Trying to fight it but its growing stronger by the second. Need to compress it and fast. Heart rate's building... sounding more like a galloping horse... need to slow it down... must slow-

The hood's suddenly taken off of me. Takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the light. I glance around trying to gather my bearings. Trying to connect the dots.

There are 6 of us in the back of what appears to be a van, chained to each other. Five look just as disoriented as I am. The 6th... something tells me he's the guy in charge. Maybe its the semi automatic weapon he's holding? Remington 1100, 12 gauge Tactical Shotgun.

Not sure why I know that or how it helps, but I do. Which leads me to only one burning question in the back of my mind. To match that itch.

"Is this all real?" asks the spectacled guy with curly hair to my right. "Am I... really _awake_ this time?"

"Wait, what is this...? What... take these chains off of me, dammit! Before I snap them off and use em to strangle your scrawny ass!" barks the big guy in the corner at the dude holding the gun. But he's unresponsive, staring back at him blankly.

**["Why dont you get this over with and put a bullet in my bloody skull!"] **screams the redhead opposite, but she too gets no reply.

**["Try to keep calm."] **I tell her. **["Panicking will only make it worse, and re-enforce their belief that _they_ are in control!]**

**["You... speak _Russian_?"]** she asks, a look of surprise on her face.

**["No, sorry ****I don't. I'm an american."]** I reply.

She stares at me in disbelief, like I'm completely out of my mind or something.

"Well then how in Lake Baikal were you able to _just_** hold a conversation with me?****" **she asks.

I have no reply for her.

"Hey, didn't your mother's ever teach you bitches, its rude to speak another language in the presence of an american?" asks the big guy in the corner. Real big, too. Maybe 2.06m, 200kg.

"Didn't _**your**_ mother ever teach you; it's rude to open you mouth when you got nothing worth hearing to say?" quotes the black guy to my left. He's calm, unperturbed... and a magician too, from the way he produces a toothpick out of the corner of his mouth before using it to free himself of his cuffs.

As the shackles hit the floor, the guy holding the shotgun bizarrely makes no effort at all to restrain him. But then that's probably because he's _holding a shotgun._

"Now whats to stop me reaching over there, taking that weapon from you and beating you to death with it?" asks the black guy, coolly.

"That would be the small electronic device implanted in every one of your thick skulls. We call it 'The Kill Chip', because, well, that's what it does! Rigged to blow if either of you monkeys step outta line. Or if I get _bored. _Whichever comes first, really."

The voice comes from the front of the van, the passenger side. Male, late 40's, bushy grey beard. I can tell that cause he's looking right at me through panel in the wall.

"Who are you?" asks the guy with the glasses.

"It doesn't matter who we are, what matters is our plan?" comes the quirky response.

"Cute. I name that movie in one." replies the black guy. "Now, you wanna get to why we're here, or...?"

"You have each kindly been 'donated' from various contributors who... oh, I won't bore you with the trivial details. Now, what is important is..."

"Now you listen up," begins the black guy. "You want my help you're gonna have to give me something in return."

"Open your eyes, this ain't no negotiation, 'Ass-wipe!" barks the big guy at him.

"Well, I guess you'd know all there is about 'wiping asses' wouldn't you, ya thoroughbred redneck?" he responds in kind.

The big guy pauses for a moment before suddenly lunging forward, clawing away at his antagonist, barely held back by his metal restraints.

"Maybe when this is all over, we'll get you two lovebirds a room." quips the guy up front. "Till then... keep your pretty little mouths wired shut and pay attention!"

"Yeah, think of the rest of us, will you?" pleads the spectacled guy.

"Im sorry, who are you again?" asks the black guy.

"He doesn't have a name. As of this moment none of you do. You will each be given a designation, remember it. You will need it to survive the task ahead."

"What... task?" asks the Russian, sceptically.

He pauses for a moment before responding, but only by pointing to us one at a time as he labelling us with our new titles, starting with me. "Queen, Knight, Bishop, Rook... and Pawn."

"Now wait a minute," cries the guy with spectacles. "Ive never even **_read_** an issue of Playboy in my entire life! Barely knew who Hefner was till only last year..."

"'Pawn' you idiot not 'porn'! Really as dumb as you look, aren't you?" quips the black guy.

"It was a joke, man, geez..."

"Do I look like I'm laughing to you, 'curly fries'?"

"You look like you **_need_** a laugh, lighten up, will ya?"

"When your through getting all exited like a pair of hormonal first graders on cherry-popping night, we'll begin." announces the guy up front, reigning it all in.

"So why are we here?" asks the Russian.

"Call it... a 'social experiment'. One group task, five unique roles. Fulfil your appointed role and you will receive your due reward. Failure to complete your task results in a headache no aspirin on earth can cure."

"So what's the task already?"

"You'll each notice you are clothed in _unique_ attire. Queen, a cashier. Bishop, thug one. Knight, a security guard. Rook, a civilian and finally '_Pawn_'... thug two."

"What is this, some kinda kinky role play?" asks Knight.

"We're here!" announces the driver as we come to a halt.

"Ok listen up," he tells us. "cause I'll only be explaining this plan **_one time only_**. You'll have 8 minutes 36 seconds to complete the task. If you are but 1 second late... well... it'll be the last time you ever are."

To be continued...


End file.
